


Days Like These

by jibrailis



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Established Relationship, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-08-13 03:50:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7961341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jibrailis/pseuds/jibrailis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An Olympics homecoming for Nishinoya.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Days Like These

“Azumane-san, while you’re in there, please grab the octopus too!” Itagaki shouts, and if Asahi’s arms were any shorter he doubts he’d be able to grab the freshly arrived octopus and the salmon _and_ the tuna at the same time, but Asahi’s arms are the size of space probes, so all is well. He grunts as he veers out of the walk-in fridge.

Itagaki makes a noise of thanks as Asahi deposits the fish on the kitchen counters. He nudges the octopus over to Itagaki and takes the salmon and tuna for himself. Asahi’s knives are clean and sharp, gleaming like silver scales; he knows this because he sharpened them this morning. He sets himself to work filleting the salmon first, head bent down with his hairnet itching the nape of his neck while Itagaki hums old enka tunes.

After a while, and after Asahi’s done the tuna too, Itagaki stops humming. Asahi tenses, worried that maybe Itagaki will want to chat, and then Asahi will have to think of interesting small talk when really he just wants to get his work done. He tries desperately to remember the latest Tigers baseball scores or the last movie he saw in theatres. Or weather. Did it rain lightly this morning? Was it sunny? Why can’t he even remember, oh god.

But he’s saved because instead of dooming them both to conversational mediocrity, Itagaki wipes his hands clean on a towel, fishes his cell phone out of his jeans, and props it up against the counter. He opens an app and starts streaming Olympics coverage, and the voice of the NHK broadcaster spills through the otherwise quiet commercial kitchen. 

_“...day 14 of the 2024 Rome Olympics, and the medal count for Japan stands at ten gold, fifteen silver, and eight bronze. We have Ando Hiroyuki in the studio today. Tell us, Ando-san, what do you think of our athletes in the last few days of the games?”_

“Azumane-san,” Itagaki speaks, and Asahi nearly jumps out of his skin, he’s so startled.

“Y-yes?” Asahi says, putting down his knife before he can do damage to himself, or worse, the fish he’s prepping.

“You’re leaving early today, aren’t you?” Itagaki asks, looking at Asahi with his droopy eyes. 

“Ah, yes,” Asahi says politely, ducking his head again. “Boss is letting me go home before 10 so I won’t be staying the full evening shift. I apologize for any inconvenience.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Itagaki says, waving his hand. “You have a high school friend in the Olympics, right? That’s what Boss told me. Your friend’s event is tonight and you want to watch it live.”

“Something like that,” Asahi agrees. “I apologize for the—”

“I said it’s fine, didn’t I?” Itagaki hums. “Now pass the tofu please. I need to start prepping the hiyayakko.” 

 

:::

 

Here are two truths and a lie about Azumane Asahi, age twenty-six and a half. 

A truth: sometimes his friends make him feel bad about not going to university, like most of them did after high school. It’s not like they do it on purpose — Suga would probably pale if he ever found out he genuinely made Asahi feel bad about anything — but it’s all the little things they say when they get together for drinks, all the stories they share that Asahi can’t join in on. 

Asahi used to wonder if he made the right decision, but it wasn’t a decision, not really. He didn’t go to university because he didn’t know what he’d want to study, and it seemed a waste to leave his family and his grandmother, who needed taking care of, when he didn’t have any real ambitions or goals. When all he’d probably end up being after a university degree is a salaryman, and Asahi prefers working in the kitchen if it comes to that. Same long hours, but he gets to watch people enjoy the things he makes.

Even after his first gig ended when his cousin’s bar shut down, and he started rotating through a series of jobs at other restaurants, now here at this izakaya, he’s liked it. Even being a prep cook was enjoyable in its own way, though Asahi’s a few years past being a prep cook now. He’s only doing it tonight with Itagaki because he asked for a shift change. 

A truth: he tried not to let his knees knock together when asking Boss-san if he could come in early, help prep, and leave service before ten. “A big man like you cowering in my doorway?” she’d said, stubbing her cigarette out. “Not cute at all.”

Asahi had winced. 

“But you’ve never asked me for anything before,” she said, “so sure, leave early. I’ll get Sanada to come in for the last few hours.”

“Thank you!” Asahi had said, whiplashing into a bow. He wasn’t sure if he ought to do more than one, thought briefly of Takeda-sensei, who would know. He jerked into another bow just in case, and then hesitated. “Uh, thank you!” he repeated.

“Yeah, yeah,” Boss had said. “Bring me some barley tea.”

A lie: his hands have stopped shaking. As he finishes prepping the fish, then the beef, and moves onto the vegetables, Asahi is a beacon of calm, a lighthouse of serenity. He’s grace incarnate as he moves through the kitchen, and all who watch him marvel at his sangfroid, even when Boss comes in to check on the kitchen, nods to herself, and walks back out.

“Still terrified of Boss, ah?” Itagaki jokes, but the truth is, Asahi’s already forgotten about Boss. He’s thinking about the game tonight, his nerves raw when the NHK announcer on Itagaki’s stream mentions: _Gold medal men’s volleyball match: Japan versus Cuba, tonight at 10 pm JST_.

Asahi is Itagaki’s senpai, if not in age than in kitchen experience, and while normally Asahi can fillet a fish faster than Itagaki — can do it faster than most people he’s met, Asahi’s like a fish whisperer or something —, tonight he’s all elbows and too many fingers. He cuts himself, embarrassingly enough. Just a nick on his thumb, but Itagaki is astonished. 

On the livestream, the announcers are chatting after the commercial break about Japan’s men’s volleyball team, led by Captain Ushijima Wakatoshi. “Very powerful spiker,” the first NHK broadcaster is saying. “Cuba will have to watch out for Ushijima, and for the rest of the team too!”

“That’s right,” the other announcer says. “And Team Japan has two extremely talented setters in Oikawa Tooru and Kageyama Tobio, not to mention one of the best liberos in the world—”

Asahi cuts himself again. 

“What’s a libero, Ando-san?” the first announcer asks. “I have to admit, I know very little about volleyball! They just give me these notes, ha! But you’ll have to explain.”

It’s going to be, Asahi thinks wryly, a very long shift. 

He tries to keep up a good pace: finish prep, mise en place, double-check he’s got everything he needs before service starts and there won’t be time to take leisurely stock of anything. Itagaki’s stream is still playing, and there’s cuts of the announcers' voices going over the day’s highlights the way there are cuts of bamboo on Asahi’s board — badminton, rhythmic gymnastics, taekwondo, reports of the weather in Rome, interviews with athletes, commercial breaks selling energy drinks and Hondas, all circling back every few minutes to the reminder of the gold medal men’s volleyball match. 

Asahi looks up at one point to see footage of Japan vs. USA from yesterday where Japan had won 3-2, and he swallows at the glimpse of Team Japan’s red and white uniforms, at Oikawa’s jump serve followed by a returning volley from the American men. Then Ushijima’s leaping for a spike while behind him in the rearguard Asahi sees the shape of a beloved head with streaky blond highlights. Nishinoya’s settled into his defensive stance, feet spread, heels dug into the floor, thighs tensed; he’s waiting.

But then Arakida-san is coming into the kitchen bemoaning the fact that she can’t find the spare towels for the oshibori, so he leaves the kitchen to help her rummage through the storage closet. By then they’re only a few minutes away from opening. 

“Here,” he says when he finds a box of towels on the top shelf, and she rushes to get them to the servers while he returns to the kitchen.

The energy of an izakaya about to open is like finding your position in first rotation, he thinks. You know it’s not where you’ll end up when the game is finished, but it’s vital to have a good start. Asahi checks his mise one last time to make sure everything’s where it ought to be so that when the orders start coming in rapidly, he doesn’t even need to think before he’s reaching for the right ingredient. He’s seen some of the younger cooks work messy and disorganized, and they always pay for it. 

He peeks from the kitchen when the first customers start arriving, and Arakida and the bartenders are cheering, “Irasshaimase!” 

Ah, but people are here; it means Asahi needs to make sure the tsukidashi is ready once the first beers are ordered. He ducks back into the kitchen. 

Itagaki’s a prep cook and now that prep is done, his shift’s over. Asahi’s disappointed by the absence of Olympics tv when Itagaki leaves, but Mori and Onishi are now here, and there’s no time for anyone to listen to Olympics coverage and daydream when Friday night at the izakaya is raucously busy. The three of them settle into a service tempo they’re all familiar with, Asahi taking most of the hot orders, Mori the cold ones, and Onishi running the pass and plating.

When 9:30 rolls around, Sanada comes and Asahi turns over his station to him. He tosses out his hairnet with a relieved sigh and changes out of his chef blacks in the staff washroom beside Boss’ office. He’s in basketball shorts and a band tee when he leaves, hoisting his gym bag over his shoulder and shouting out a thank you and goodbye to the other chefs. Mori flips him off, friendly-like.

It’s almost ten, almost time for the start of the game, but luckily Asahi doesn’t live far from the izakaya, and luckily he’s got long legs for running. “Excuse me, excuse me!” he says as he ducks past drunken Friday night revelers on the pavement, running beneath the hot neon lights of downtown Osaka after dark. 

It’s five past ten when he bursts into his apartment and lunges for the tv. He hits his elbow on the coffee table where Noya has his stupid dog-a-day calendar, his not so subtle reminder to Asahi that he really, really wants them to get a dog. Which — Asahi likes dogs, but their apartment is no-pets so that means they’d have to move, which he doesn’t want to, and also he’s not sure with him working nights and Noya playing away games with the Suntory Sunbirds so often, who’d be around taking care of their dog. 

Still, Noya wheedling for a dog is more manageable than Asahi’s mom dropping hints about grandchildren, which she’s been doing since last summer when he and Noya went to both Suga and Tanaka’s weddings within a few weeks of each other. Asahi’s pretty sure his mom knows Nishinoya is more than his roommate because she keeps mentioning adoption with a meaningful look in her eye that makes Asahi’s heart quake in fear.

Not that he’s thinking about any of that right now, as he dives for the tv. The remote’s missing, Noya lost it ages ago, so he hits the console with panicked fingers and stabs the buttons until he finds the right channel. Japan vs. Cuba’s barely started when he comes across it, and Asahi doesn’t bother scooting back to the couch. He stays kneeling in front of the tv like a child watching a parade for Santa, breath hooked precariously in his throat, fingers balled into fists as he watches Kageyama set the ball high and sweet for Ushijima — god, Asahi remembers how that felt, to hit something Kageyama set for you — and Ushijima slams the ball over the net, blasting through the middle blockers, for Japan’s first point.

“Yes!” Asahi breathes, but then he stops breathing when Japan’s next serve — Yanagita, Asahi’s met him before, he plays on the Sunbirds with Noya, is a beast at karaoke — is returned by the Cubans. It’s a hard, fast spike with muscle behind it, but Nishinoya dives for it and the sound of the ball hitting his sturdy forearms, changing its rotation, and going up again in a perfect receive makes Asahi sweat with longing. 

“Chance ball!” Kageyama shouts, and the entire vanguard moves forward in a synchronized attack. Kageyama tosses it to Chikamatsu, one of their wing spikers, who drives it forwards. 

But shit, the Cubans receive it. They send it over the net where it bounces off Ushijima at a bad angle, heading towards the back line, but Noya appears seemingly out of nowhere and hits the ball back to centre.

Kageyama lines up the toss again. Ushijima nails it over the net. Another point for Japan. Asahi relearns breathing.

It’s too much, he thinks. Watching this gold medal game. It’s too much for his poor overworked heart to handle. But nothing in the world could make him look away, not until commercial break where he shouts at the tv because no! who the hell needs commercials when Cuba’s about to serve. He glances down at his phone that’s been buzzing steadily for the past ten minutes, and there’s texts coming in the Karasuno group chat from Daichi, from Suga, from Tanaka, from Hinata, whose volleyball career ended in university with a bad injury that still makes Asahi want to cry. But Hinata’s excited as any of them, screaming at Kageyama with cheerful profanity. 

Daichi: _ASAHI HAVE YOU DIED YET. REMEMBER TO BREATHE_

Suga: _Yeah Asahi, we don’t want it to be like that Sunbirds vs FC Tokyo game where you almost passed out in the audience_

Asahi: _IT WAS THE ONCE_

Tanaka: _SHUT UP GUYS ITS BACK TO THE GAME. ROLLLLING THUNDER!!!_

Tsukishima: _I’m muting all of you, I need to sleep_

Yamaguchi: _Tsukki’s lying, he’s watching the game right beside me :))))_

Hinata: _OH MY GOD LOOK AT THAT DECOY. DAMN IT CUBA’S SO GOOD!!!_

Ennoshita: _We’ll crush them_

Yachi: _I’m with you, Asahi-san, I can barely look_

Hinata: _FIRST SET TO JAPAN FUCK YEAH!!_

Tanaka: _WERE goNNA BE OLYMPIC CHAMPIONS_

Tsukishima: _oh my god_

Yamaguchi: _oh my god_

Daichi: _I THINK WE ARE_

Suga: _!!!_

Ennoshita: _We’re playing really really well. 2-1 japan, if we can win this set…_

Hinata: _WE CAN_

Tanaka: _WE WILL_

Yachi: _I’m screaming so loudly for Kageyama-san and Nishinoya-san that I think my voice broke. Kiyoko says hi by the way_

Tanaka: _KIYOKO-SAN!!!_

Suga: _ASAHI ARE YOU ALIVE_

Asahi: _no_

Hinata: _fdsajkldsa;jklajkl;a WE WON fsdjaklsda;jlka WE WON_

Tanaka: _HOLY SHIT!!!!!_

Daichi: _THAT LAST SAVE BY NISHINOYA_

Tsukishima: _holy crap we did it_

Yamaguchi: _IS THIS A DREAM!!!!_

Ennoshita: _we’re olympic gold medalists_

Suga: _I’M BUYING EVERYONE DRINKS_

Yachi: _GUYS IM CRYING. KIYOKOS CRYING. THE WHOLE WORLDS CRYING_

Daichi: _Someone fly to Osaka and check on Asahi, preferably CPR-trained_

Asahi’s on his feet shouting at the top of his lungs. He’s jumping up and down. He’s spinning in circles. He’s being a menace to furniture. When his phone starts to ring he’s so overexcited that he doesn’t even recognize the sound above the buzzing in his ears, but then it rings and it rings and it keeps on ringing, and when Asahi sees who it is, he drops the phone twice before fumbling to pick up.

“Asahi, guess what,” Noya’s laughing.

“You _won_ ,” Asahi breathes. “I know. I was watching.”

“Pretty good, huh?” Noya says, and Asahi can hear the roar of the stadium behind him, the shouts and the cheers, Oikawa’s distinct voice yelling _did you see that, Iwa-chan, did you see that_ on his own phone. 

“You won,” Asahi says again, nonsensically, because he can’t even remember how to use words anymore. He sinks to his knees, overwhelmed.

“Yeah, I know,” Noya says. 

“You _won_.”

“I know!” Noya says. “Okay, I gotta go now, they’re rounding us up to do the medal ceremony, but I wanted to hear your voice. Love ya, bye.” He hangs up, and Asahi stares at the phone in his hand like it’s a tender relic. When he gets up onto his feet again, he sees that he’s knocked over the whole coffee table and pages from the dog-a-day calendar have torn off the spine to scatter aimlessly about.

He doesn’t sleep for the rest of the night, he’s too busy smiling stupidly at everything in his apartment: at the coffee table, at the calendar dogs, at the wall, at the frying pan, at the shoes lined up by the front door. When Asahi glances at the mirror to brush his teeth for bed, he laughs at how dopey he looks, how happy.

 

:::

 

It’s eight in the morning, and he’s trying to decide if he wants to get up or continue attempting some much-needed sleep when his phone lights up. 

Nishinoya: _im drunk_

Nishinoya: _we re all drunk_

Nishinoya: _THERE IS SO MUCH BOOZE HERE ASAHI I CANT FEEL MY NOSE ANYMORE_

Nishinoya: _everyone keeps buying me drinks_

Nishinoya: _u know what i really want right now??? i wanna suck your dick. i wanna go down on you until your legs shake and your moaning my name loud enough for every1 to hear_

Nishinoya: _GOD i want your dick so bad_

Asahi: _Noya…_

Nishinoya: _This is Oikawa~~~♥ I’m taking Nishinoya-chan’s phone away from him because he won’t stop shouting about your dick and it’s gross~~_

Asahi buries his face in his pillow until it stops feeling like it’s about to explode.

Nishinoya: _ITS ME AGAIN. oikawa is so weak, i punched him til i got my phone back. ASAHI_

Nishinoya: _ASAHI_

Nishinoya: _THERE ARE SO MANY HOT PEOPLE IN THE OLYMPIC VILAGE_

Nishinoya: _sooooo many_

Nishinoya: _but i only want you, ya know?_

Nishinoya: _ur so hot_

Nishinoya: _fuck_

Asahi’s fingers shake as he texts back because it’s not like he’s never thought about Nishinoya surrounded by the planet's most beautiful, athletic men and women, all riding adrenaline highs, and here’s Asahi, plain old Asahi, waiting for him at home. He wouldn’t blame Noya for looking, for wanting. Was almost resigned to it. He starts writing a text, then erases it, then starts composing another. He was never as good as expressing his feelings as Noya, unfortunately.

Asahi: _Enjoy the rest of your night, Noya. I’ll see you soon_

 

:::

 

There are only a handful of days left in the Rome Olympics, but more than a week until he’ll get to see Noya again, because there’s a special skills camp after the games that the U.S team’s organized, and Noya wants to go. Of course Noya wants to go; he can’t get enough of volleyball even when he already lives breathes eats it, his professional career in the V.Premier League and then being named to the national men’s team notwithstanding. But that’s the way, isn’t it. Noya follows volleyball and Asahi follows Noya. 

Asahi couldn’t have ever imagined moving to Osaka, so far from his family, but when Noya got the contract with the Sunbirds, it wasn’t even an option not to.

 _You mean you’ll go with me_ , Noya had asked, chewing his lip, and it was that moment when Asahi saw that Noya hadn’t been sure, hadn’t wanted to hope, and it was that moment that Asahi had wanted to say, _I never want to be away from you_.

The truth is, though, they’re away from each other quite often. Noya’s so busy with volleyball that he’s rarely at home, and when he does crawl into bed at night Asahi’s usually wrapping up his shift at the izakaya. Their life is one of quick kisses in the doorway when one of them is heading out, notes left on the fridge, synced phone calendars, and weekend afternoons, which have become dearly precious to Asahi even when all they do is sleep in and watch anime together in bed.

Which is all to say, it’s fine that Noya’s not coming back from Rome for another week. Asahi has plenty to occupy him. He has work, which is mostly uneventful except for the few times when he’s called to the front to toss out some of the rowdier customers. Usually he doesn’t have to do anything other than stand there at his full height — Asahi, stop slouching, he can hear his grandmother say in his head—, cock his eyebrow, and the guys will leave. Sometimes he has to actually manhandle them, which he doesn’t like, but he’s the most physically imposing person at the izakaya, so he accepts this as his duty. 

When he’s not at work, he runs. Goes jogging in the mornings and then ends up at the gym where he pushes weights for an hour, takes his mind off things. Sometimes when he’s feeling especially tense, he goes to yoga with Arakida-san from work. Or he tidies at home — when one co-habitates with Nishinoya, tidying is a 24/7 activity and he keeps on finding kneepads and Nintendo magazines lying in the oddest places, like in the freezer. Or he picks up groceries and makes sure to buy enough coconut milk to make Noya’s favourite curry. 

He sends a photo of the curry ingredients to Noya, who immediately texts back.

Noya: _knew there was a reason i shacked up with a chef_

Asahi: _You knew me before I was a cook_

Noya: _(¬ -̮ ¬)_

Sometimes Asahi wishes he had more friends in Osaka. It’s lonely when Noya’s not here and he’s got Sunday afternoon to himself, wondering if he should see that new kaiju movie, except he’s too embarrassed to go to the movies alone. He misses Miyagi, misses his Karasuno friends and the coworkers he worked with in his early days cooking, when they were all dumb kids fumbling into adulthood together and it felt so natural to send off a text with an invite. 

It’s not that he’s antisocial with his current coworkers — Arakida is always up for yoga — but crossing that boundary and becoming genuine friends isn’t the easiest for Asahi. If someone wrote a book about how to move to a new city and make friends, he’d read it.

On Monday evenings, his day off, he plays volleyball with his neighbourhood association team. They’re nice enough guys, he supposes, even if he’s not particularly close with any of them. They’ve all known each other for years and are full of private jokes about their jobs and their girlfriends that Asahi doesn’t understand and only pretends to laugh at. 

They do respect him, though, which is nice. Or maybe it’s only his powerful spikes and jump serves they respect, and the fact that he lives with Nishinoya Yuu of the national men’s team, not realizing that when they make fun of him for getting flustered at dirty texts from his ‘girlfriend’ that they’re the same person. The neighbourhood association guys are always asking him for details about his mysterious hot girlfriend, who once sent him to a game with a horribly made bento, which is annoying, but Asahi loves the feeling of being on the court too much to care. 

Noya sends him a steady stream of texts from Rome.

Nishinoya: _so tell me what you’re wearing right now_

Asahi: _No_

Nishinoya: _pleaaaaase_

Nishinoya: _you’re giving me blue balls bro_

Asahi: _I’m not your bro_

Nishinoya replies by sending him a winky face, which is — Asahi can’t dignify that with a response. If he reacted every time Nishinoya got horny, he’d spend his entire life on his back.

The day before Noya’s due to fly back to Japan, he cleans the mildew from the shower, reorganizes their closet, and makes a week’s worth of curry.

 

:::

 

It takes about an hour and twenty minutes for Asahi to ride the train from his apartment to the Kansai airport, and he spends most of it trying to read a manga he found on Noya’s side of the bed, not fidgeting, and failing at both. In the end he gives up and stares out the windows instead, watching the fields and satellite towers go by, clutching the bento box he’s brought with him on his knees. 

Noya’s flight is delayed, of course, which only gives Asahi even more time to be wretched and awkward, standing in the arrivals watching friends and families eagerly welcoming their loved ones home; little kids reunited with parents coming back from work trips, a man getting on his knees and proposing to his girlfriend, who looks like she’s about to faint. Asahi’s so distracted watching the latter scene that when the doors slide open and a loud, ebullient voice shouts his name, he nearly drops the bento to the ground.

He does drop it, moments later, when Noya comes barreling at him and throws himself into his arms. 

“ASAHI,” he shouts directly into Asahi’s face, and ouch, Asahi’s certain Noya’s managed to break the sound barrier, except he’s weeping silently himself, pressing his nose into Noya’s hair — wow, it’s so long now, it needs a cut — and breathing it in.

“Asahi,” Noya says again when he finally disentangles himself from Asahi’s arms. The way he says it, like he wants to keep Asahi’s name tucked on his tongue forever, like it’s his favourite word of all, makes Asahi shiver. Noya beams up at him. “Missed you,” he says easily.

“Y-yeah, me too,” Asahi manages while trying to secretly wipe away his tears. Noya laughs at his lack of eloquence, but not in a mean way. Nishinoya’s never mean, not even when Asahi can only stand there gaping dumbly at his Olympic champion boyfriend, who looks — so damn good, small and muscular with his unzipped Team Japan jacket and skinny black jeans. When Noya shucks off his jacket, because it’s too hot in the airport compared to the chill of the plane, he’s got a black tank underneath, and the solid heft of his arms are covered in slopes of tattoos that hide his usual collection of libero bruises. 

“Is this tattoo new?” Asahi asks, touching it gently.

“Yup!” Noya says. “Dragged Kageyema to get a victory tattoo. You should see his!”

“I’d rather see yours,” Asahi says, and has the surprised pleasure of watching Noya go pink. 

“Yeah, yeah, you sweet talker,” Noya says, digging his thumbs into his belt rings. “Oh, is that for me on the ground?”

Asahi glances down to where he’s dropped the bento. “Oh!” He scoops it up, inspecting it for damage. “I thought you might be hungry.”

“‘m _starving_ ,” Noya agrees, and takes Asahi by the elbow, guiding him the way he often does when they’re walking together. Asahi doesn’t mind being led around by Noya. Noya’s got one arm on Asahi and the other arm hoisting his duffel bag, and when Asahi offers to carry his luggage, Noya just laughs at him. 

Wandering through the airport together, people give them looks, and Asahi wonders if it’s because they look like two gangsters — Asahi with his height and his scruffy stubble, Noya with his dyed hair and his multitude of tattoos —, or if maybe they’re recognizing Noya from tv. Probably a mix of both, he admits, and leans against Noya when they get on the train.

An hour and twenty minutes, and Noya spends the entirety of the trip back to Osaka babbling happily about everything that happened since he last saw Asahi over a month ago. He tells Asahi everything leading up to the games, gives a play by play of all their matches, and everything after too, including arm-wrestling Oikawa because only one of them could get upgraded to first class on the flight out of Rome. Oikawa’d thrown a fit, which was a source of endless delight for Noya, who got free drinks in first class — “I’m kinda drunk right now!” he confesses loudly — and all the flight attendants were so beautiful, they were like movie stars.

“Mm,” Asahi says at the mention of attractive flight attendants, but he doesn’t have the opportunity to feel jealous when Noya’s practically maneuvered himself onto Asahi’s lap. Asahi spares a thought for public decency and tries to subtly shove Noya off. Noya gives him an amused look and leans in even closer.

His wily plans are interrupted only by the reminder of food. He inhales the bento Asahi bought for him, slightly dented and all. “Oh man, your home cooking,” he says. “I missed Japanese food so much.”

“Oh man, it feels good to be on a train that works. Rome’s trains are like—”

“Oh man, do you wanna see my medal?”

“Not on the train,” Asahi says weakly, though he does. 

When they unlock their apartment door, Asahi grabs Noya by the shoulder before he can rush on in like a human-shaped torpedo. “Please hang up your coat,” he says.

“Asahi has me whipped,” Noya grins, but he does. He tosses his jacket on the coat rack Asahi specifically bought for them, and waits for Asahi to do the same. When Asahi turns around Noya’s quiet, watching him thoughtfully, which makes Asahi wary because a quiet Noya is never a prelude to anything good.

“Fuck,” Noya says, “seeing you in this shirt, it should be illegal.”

“What’s wrong with it?” Asahi asks in mild alarm, plucking at his t-shirt. It’s one of his older ones, he might’ve had it in high school even. It’s ordinary white and the fabric is starting to thin from years of wear, which — oh.

“I can see _everything_ ,” Noya says. “Your nipples show when it’s cold.” 

“Ah, um,” Asahi casts about. “Are you sure you’re full? I have some of that curry in the fridge. And you must feel so grimy from the plane. Let me run you a bath, I can—”

Noya steps into his space and yanks him down for a kiss. Noya’s arms go around Asahi’s neck, lacing around the back, and his toes push him up for leverage. Asahi only has time for a muffled mmph before Noya is eagerly licking into his mouth. Asahi moans and grips the curve of Noya’s slim hips, holding him steady as they kiss, tasting the sweet cool softness of Noya’s mouth.

Noya’s fingers dig into the nape of his neck and fan out into his hair, unraveling Asahi’s bun. He takes down Asahi’s hair the way he’s taking down Asahi’s self control, piece by piece, thread by thread, unspooling warmth and want through Asahi’s bones, building a pool of fire in Asahi’s belly. With one arm he pulls Noya closer to him until their chests meet and Noya’s grinding his hips against Asahi in slow, patient circles. 

Noya kisses the corner of Asahi’s mouth, Asahi’s chin, his jaw, his throat. Asahi tips his head back and Noya kisses his Adam’s apple as it works, and Asahi swallows, strung high with desire. When Noya pulls away and smirks at him, his face is reddened with beard burn, and god, _fuck_. Asahi yanks him back into another kiss, fierce and wild, unafraid of of anything. Noya groans into Asahi’s mouth, and grabs Asahi’s hand. He places it on his crotch, letting Asahi feel how hard he is.

“Let me take you to bed,” Noya coaxes, but really it’s more like Asahi taking Noya to bed, the way Noya grabs onto him and won’t let go, not even to properly walk. He’s all leg and limb, trying to climb Asahi as he kisses him, and Asahi has a brief heated memory of holding Noya up against the door as they'd fucked, Noya’s ass a perfect lush weight in Asahi’s palms. But Noya specifically said bed, so Asahi half carries, half drags Noya to their bedroom, distracted every few meters by Noya sucking dark bruises into his neck, a promise.

Asahi more or less throws Noya onto the mattress, and Noya laughs, bouncing until he comes to a stop. He scrambles up to his knees and slides his hands under Asahi’s t-shirt, feeling Asahi’s belly, his pecs, and then up to his nipples. They’re sensitive, Noya knows this, and Asahi swallows again, weak-kneed as Noya thumbs his nipples, kissing them through Asahi’s shirt, leaving the fabric wet, and then playing with them with the callouses on his thumbs. 

“No fair,” Asahi mumbles, and Noya gives him a dark sleek look, the kind he gives his opponents across the net when a game’s about to begin.

“Don’t wanna be fair with you, Asahi,” he says, and leans away to tear off his own shirt, dropping it to the floor and pulling Asahi on top of him. Asahi tries for a controlled fall; he’s terrified of crushing Noya like a flatbread and having to call 119 to explain. But Noya makes it difficult the way he’s pulling at Asahi impatiently, and when Asahi stumbles and drops his full weight onto him, the sound that comes out of Noya can only be described as hungry.

“Mm, yeah,” he says, arching up like a cat to rub against Asahi. He closes his eyes at one point, lost to it, cheekbones flushed and lips swollen. Asahi stares in awe, the way Noya’s using him like a scratching post for his cock, pushing up into him with a series of barely bitten-back whines. Then Noya opens his eyes and grins. 

“This would be better without pants,” he says. “Take off your pants.”

Asahi hurries to obey. His hands tremble as he unzips himself, and there’s no hiding from Noya how huge and hard he is, boned up in his underwear, cock smearing a curlicue of precome against the tenting of his briefs. Noya sits up and cups him, thumbing Asahi languidly. Asahi whimpers.

“Can’t take off my pants,” he says, “when you’re — like that.”

“Oh? Sorry, sorry,” Noya says, singsong, but he knows full well what he’s doing, the little shit. He squeezes Asahi’s balls through the cotton, and Asahi has to forcibly push him away before he does something he’ll regret, like pin Noya to the bed and never let him go. Not that he’s ever regretted it before, but. It’s for Noya’s own good. 

Noya falls back onto the bed with a laugh that quickly fades when Asahi finishes kicking himself out of his pants and his underwear, and then Noya’s staring at him smoky-eyed and quiet, hoarse with want. 

“Your turn,” Asahi says.

The sad, pathetic truth is that Asahi likes everything about Nishinoya Yuu, can’t think of a single thing he’d want to change, he’s so far gone. But he likes Noya best like this, tiny and naked in their bed, all muscle, tattoos, and red panting mouth, a hand around his cock, holding it neatly as he waits. Waits for Asahi to climb up the bed and kiss him, Asahi’s hair a soft cloud curtain around their faces. 

Asahi’s missed this, so much. Even if he doesn’t have the words to say it, he can make sure that Noya knows. 

Noya lets Asahi drop slow, heated kisses onto his mouth for a while until he pushes Asahi onto his back. “What—” Asahi starts, but Noya bites Asahi’s bottom lip, drags it in between his teeth. Asahi shuts up. He squeezes his eyes together as Noya releases his lip to press kisses down his belly and into the crease of his thigh, his mouth coming tantalizingly close to where Asahi’s cock bobs big and swollen between his legs. 

Asahi squirms. “Noya,” he exhales.

“Shh,” Noya says, but his mouth doesn’t touch Asahi’s cock at all, despite all the boasting about cocksucking he’s been driving Asahi crazy with — and Nishinoya is _very_ good at cocksucking, Asahi knows this from brains-drained-out-of-his-ears experience. Instead Noya sucks kisses into the meat of Asahi’s shaking thighs, into the hollows of his hips, the delicate skin behind his balls. Then Asahi startles and his eyes fly open, because there’s a sound he hasn’t heard in over a month — Noya reaching for the lube and flipping the cap open.

“This alright?” he asks when their eyes meet.

“Yeah,” Asahi says. “I—” He doesn’t know how to finish the sentence. The merciful thing is he doesn’t have to when Noya knows what he means, what he wants. Noya rubs the lube between his hands to warm it up, and Asahi groans at the first tender probe of Noya’s finger at his ass. He’s missed this too, how Noya is always so content to take his time with him, giving Asahi his first finger up to his knuckle, waiting, and then pushing in more. The pressure is slow and heavy, pendulous, and Asahi’s balls are pulled up so high, aching with want.

He cries out when Noya settles between his legs and kisses his hole, tongue delving around where his fingers are splayed. Asahi’s first instinct is to squeeze his legs shut around Noya’s head because this, this is embarrassing, it’s dirty and shameful and Noya shouldn’t—

But Noya opens him up, thumbs digging into him and spreading him bare for Noya’s mouth. “Fuck,” Asahi groans as Noya starts licking him, tongue digging into his ass alongside his fingers. It’s so much to take in at once, blunt hot pressure against Asahi’s fluttering nerve endings, Noya’s tongue and mouth a wet velvety heat in counterpart to his clever thumbs. Asahi’s legs shake as he presses his heels into the mattress as hard as he can.

“You don’t have to,” he tries again, but Noya doesn’t ever do anything he doesn’t want to, and he eats Asahi out until Asahi’s hole is loose and dripping with lube, and Noya’s chin is shiny with it when he leans back to admire his handiwork.

“God, Asahi,” he says, slipping his fingers back in, and Asahi’s so open now that they go in without any resistance at all. Asahi’s a sweaty moaning wreck on the sheets, barely two words to string together. “Do you even know,” Noya’s throat works, “how gorgeous you are?”

“Yuu,” Asahi says helplessly.

“Love seeing you like this,” Noya says, scissoring Asahi open. “You want it so bad, don’t you?” Asahi whines. “Yeah, sweetheart, you wanna ride my dick?”

Asahi’s only answer is to push Noya onto the bed and climb on top of him. Noya’s cock is so blood-flushed and hard, he must be hurting with it. Asahi’s own cock drools ribbons of precome onto Noya’s belly as Asahi settles himself over Noya’s hips, forgetting to be careful with his weight, forgetting to be gentle — he only has one thing in mind when he circles Noya’s cock with his fingers and guides himself onto it.

For all that Noya’s a whirling dervish of a human being, he’s quiet during sex like he’s quiet on the court. So the sound that he makes when Asahi sits on his dick is inhumanly loud, a low liquid moan that renders Asahi’s spine to water. Asahi quivers but then rallies; he knows what his job is here, and if Noya’s going to make him work for it, then Asahi will fucking work for it.

Noya’s cock isn’t as long as Asahi’s but it’s fat, and it feels so good seated inside of him. Asahi starts working his hips in an experimental grind, dragging out the sweet-heavy pleasure like butter warming up a skillet. Beneath him Noya has his arms tucked beneath his head, watching Asahi with golden eyes, and it should piss Asahi off, what a pillow princess Noya is being, but it only makes him ache even more inside. Knowing Noya’s watching Asahi fuck himself on Noya’s cock.

“The first time I ever saw you, I thought about this,” Noya says, all dark heat in his voice, and Asahi cries out. Thighs tremble where they’re bracketed around Noya’s waist. He pushes himself up and then grinds himself down, his hole squelching obscenely as it takes Noya’s cock.

“You were fifteen,” Asahi pants. “I was your senpai.”

“I had a lot of imagination,” Noya says, and tries to hitch up, only he can't because Asahi is on top of him.

“Oh my god,” Asahi sobs, and he does what Noya wants him to do: he rides him. Tentative at first, and then, with Noya’s thumbs toying with his nipples, harder and faster, bowing forward so that Noya hits that spot inside of him with each buck of his hips that — fuck, yeah, Asahi’s hairline gleams with sweat, like salt on the rim of a margarita. 

Asahi’s cock weaves in the air, all the blood rushed to the head, and he cries out again when Noya takes it in his hand and starts jacking him in rhythm with Asahi’s heaving thighs. Asahi tries to keep sitting straight, he truly does. He knows it gives Noya the best view of Asahi screwing himself on him, but soon it’s too much, and he falls forward, bracing one arm on the pillow beside Noya’s head, his mouth hanging open as he huffs out uneven breaths.

Asahi’s thighs scream with exertion even as his hips feel loose and languid, his hole a sloppy mess of lube and Noya’s precome as he bounces on Noya’s cock. “Yeah, yeah, take it, Asahi, take it,” Noya’s chanting as he pumps into him, and Asahi can only tuck his chin to his chest and keep on riding, arms shaking with the effort of holding himself up. 

Noya’s palm is slick and slippery where he’s tugging at Asahi’s dick, and finally all of it comes slamming into Asahi like turning a corner on his morning jog and running straight into a brick wall. He keens as he orgasms, balls emptying shot after shot of come that splatters Noya’s hand, dripping down his knuckles. Noya continues trying to thrust into him from underneath. Asahi lifts up a bit to give him more room, and Noya's groaning loudly as he works Asahi on his dick until his hips stutter and he’s creaming Asahi with his load. Asahi flushes at the feel of all that come inside of him.

He floats in hazy pleasure afterwards, brainless and sleepy. It’s Noya who rolls him over and opens Asahi up with careful fingers, checking that he’s okay. It’s Noya who tugs him out of the wet spot and wipes them clean with a towel. It’s Noya who hooks his thumbs into Asahi’s shoulders and gives him a massage until Asahi comes back to reality and blinks.

“Did I ever tell you,” he says, slow and syrupy, “that I’m really glad you won gold?”

Noya’s grinning. “I can tell.”

“I’m,” Asahi says, “so proud of you.” He breathes out his words into Noya’s neck because it’s overwhelming to see the way Nishinoya looks at him at times like this, all sweaty sex-blown adoration. Noya never bothers hiding anything on his face. 

Noya rakes Asahi’s hair and spreads it out over the pillow. “Man,” he says, “this is so much better than when I was fifteen and obsessed with you, but too shy to say anything.” He kisses a spot behind Asahi’s ear. “Not that I’ve stopped. Being obsessed with you, that is.”

Asahi shudders. He thinks of Nishinoya on that Olympics court, silent and watchful, waiting for the ball he knows he can save. He thinks of Noya lowering his head to receive the gold medal on the podium. He thinks of Noya in the mornings before he’s off to team practice, getting up for the early train while Asahi’s still warm with sleep, kissing Asahi on the shoulder and swatting him on the ass until Asahi yelps in indignation. He thinks of Noya coming home in the evenings, jacket tossed wherever he wants and socks stuffed under random couch cushions, Noya’s face open and smiling, mouth curved in mischief. 

“Same,” he whispers.

“I’m hungry again,” Noya announces, swatting Asahi on his ass. “Make me dinner.” And because Asahi adores him, he says yes.  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
